May Cause Cancer
by Your Pyroclastic Flow
Summary: Oh, this is great. Reeve entered Vincent into a contest. Cid has to get them there. Problem is, poor Ciddy got a cold! Who better to nurse him back to health than Vinnie V.? VinCid, a romance with a plot. Rated for language, violence, drugs, and themes.
1. Kiss

**Author's Notes:** Wow, not only has it been a long time since I last updated, it's been a long time since I worked on this story! Man, life gets in the way of the most epic things. I remember enjoying writing this TWO YEARS AGO and didn't finish it because of this horrible thing that happened with a friend of mine, and after that, I lost it. But I found it again! So I've spent all day typing and editing it. It takes place a few months after Dirge of Cerberus. Cid has a new airship. I gave some WRO members names. It's my pathetic attempt at fluff. Heh. You need to understand, I am NOT a romantic person. It's difficult for me to write overly cutesy things, but I tried in this story, and I'll keep trying as I write it. However, it will, of course, have my signature flair.

...if I even have a signature flair.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own FFVII. This story wouldn't exist if I did, because I'd probably get fired for making Cid and Vincent canonly gay.

**Warning:** Cuss words, dialect, lots of contemplation, some VinxCid (this WILL be slow to develop to its fullest! If you like 'em together right away, you might not have the patience for this, because the plot doesn't revolve around their romance alone). Not much action in this chapter. It gets more exciting later on. I'll update as soon as I finish typing it up.

**May Cause Cancer**

_Chapter One_

1

"Should it have burned when I used the honey?" asked Cid. He sat on his bed in the captain's cabin, wrapped in a big blue blanket.

Reeve laughed, as he so often did. These kinds of comments seemed to tickle him. "That means it's killing the germs," he explained. "Considering how sick you are, I'd say it's a good thing it burned. That means it's working."

"Ah, hell," Cid said. 'Hey, Vince, can ya hand me another tissue? I'm leakin' like a broken pipe!" Vincent glanced around for the box, spotted it on the night stand beside Cid's bed, and handed a tissue to him. As an afterthought, he grabbed the whole box and held it out for Cid so he could take one whenever he needed to. Cid blew his nose loudly a couple times and tossed the tissue toward the trash can when he was done. It missed by several inches. "Dammit. Reeve, could y—"

Reeve picked the crumpled snot rag from the floor and placed it in the trash without letting Cid finish, careful not to exhibit too much disgust. The last thing you should do is scoff when a friend is sick.

"Thanks, Reeve. Anyway, I'm real sorry 'bout this, fellas. Didn't count on gettin' sick. We'll prob'ly have to post-pone the flight and forfeit the contest." He sniffled, eyes on the floor.

"Now, that's no way to think," said Reeve. "Someone else can fly the ship. Wilson. He's a good pilot."

Cid took another tissue from Vincent and blew. "Yeah, but then who's gonna take his place in the engine room?"

Reeve thought for a moment. "Charlene. She should have no problem figuring out how to monitor the engine if Davis instructs her right."

"Uh-huh." Cid wiped his nose. "Then who the hell's gonna take over her job?"

"I can," Vincent offered, despite that he had no idea what Charlene's job was.

Cid shook his head. "No way. I don't mean to offend you, Vincent, but I don't trust you with computers. This is complicated stuff. It'd go right over yer head without the proper trainin'."

"There's always Cait Sith," Reeve suggested.

"Cait?!" Cid began, but sneezed right after, and so his protest ended. Vincent handed him yet another tissue.

"He's a fast learner," Reeve said. "Leave it to me. We'll make it to that contest just fine. You rest up and focus on getting better." He left. Cid gazed sorrowfully at Vincent and sighed.

"Of all the time in the world for my immune system to go to the shits. I really am sorry 'bout this, Vinnie."

"Not your fault," Vincent said.

"But it is!" Cid disagreed. "We've been plannin' this for _months_, and now we're likely to miss it! Or at least _I_ am. Things like this never cease to piss me off. I wanna see you, Vinnie!"

"But I'm right h—"

"I wanna see you _compete_," Cid elaborated. "I wanna see you knock the socks off those other guys who think they can shoot like the war heroes. I know you can win, but I wanna _see_ it."

Vincent stared solemnly at the box of tissues in his hands. He didn't see what the big deal was. Cid saw him shoot things all the time. Would a contest make it any different? He couldn't say for sure. He hadn't been in any kind of shooting "contest" since his early Turk days, and back then it had been for the sake of his job, not prize money. While the action itself may have been the same, the accuracy varied with the determination to do it, and the determination wavered with the goal. However, this goal, the prize money for winning the contest, wasn't the kind Vincent set up for himself. It had been Reeve's idea. Reeve put him up to it. And common sense told the tales of being more determined to fight for goals you set upon yourself rather than those set by other people for you. Truth be told, he wasn't too thrilled about being used this way, but since Reeve said the money would go to repairing the damage on WRO headquarters, as well as the destroyed towns and Midgar "cleanup," he had no reason to refuse. A simple task for the greater good. The worst that could happen was publicity. And losing, but Vincent was more concerned about the publicity.

Cid grabbed another tissue from the box, directing Vincent's eyes to him. "We got three days 'til the competition. Maybe by then I'll be well enough to hang out in the audience. Last thing I wanna do is end up havin' to watch ya on TV. I mean, I'm sure you'd look pretty an' all on the big screen, but I'd rather be able to shout atcha and have ya hear me." He paused to take care of his nose, then crumpled the tissue and attempted at tossing it in the trash again. It missed and rolled toward the door. "Dammit. Anyway, Vince, you prob'ly oughtta get outta here before you catch my germs. We need you in top shape, ol' buddy, an' there's no way that's gonna happen if you keep hangin' 'round me."

Vincent, who hadn't suffered a physical illness for over thirty years, doubted "hangin' 'round" Cid would faze him; however, if Cid wanted him to leave, if it would make him feel better, he would leave. He handed the tissue box to Cid. "I'll be back to check up on you in an hour. If you need anything—"

"Don't hesitate to call," Cid finished for him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gotcha. You're a good man, Vinnie. See ya later."

The "good man" glanced from the hand on his shoulder to the man attached to it, hesitating. Finally, he said, "Later, Cid," broke their contact, turned on his heel, and left.

For a long time afterward, Cid stared at the ceiling, and thought about how never before in his life had he wanted to be taken care of by a particular person (besides maybe his mother) so badly. He had always been one to prefer taking care of himself, and other people from time to time. But since Vincent was here and willing, and he was sick enough to be a lazy bones all day and get away with it...

2

Cid's newest airship, the _Valentine_, resumed its travels as planned, Captain or sick Captain or no Captain at all. Wilson subbed for Cid as Reeve suggested he would. Charlene took over Wilson's job in the engine room like discussed, accompanied by more experienced engine room staff to assist her when she needed it. Cait Sith tapped away at a computer in Charlene's place, every now and then mumbling to himself about how complicated such a simple-looking thing could be. Cid remained locked away in his cabin, napping, laying around, and blowing his nose. He was forbidden cigarettes, because he had enough issues breathing as it was, and he wasn't allowed alcohol of any kind, because alcohol was a multiplier and would thus be dangerous to take with his cold medicines. All this denial of his every day staples made him excessively grouchy.

Vincent and Reeve took turns checking up on him every hour. When it was Reeve's turn, Cid asked about what Vincent was doing. When it was Vincent's turn, Cid asked him to do a few not-quite-necessary favors just to keep him around a few minutes. Sure, he would have asked Vincent to hang around all day for the hell of it, without making him wait on him, but having already warned Vincent against hanging around too long, Cid figured he ought to stick to his word. Too late in the game to go contradicting himself. Besides, Vincent seemed to like doing those not-quite-necessary favors. It made Cid wonder what other kind of "favors" he might do, if asked just right...

But no. That was totally inappropriate. Vincent wasn't a toy or a prostitute or a pushover or anything like that. He wasn't an object to make use of and otherwise overlook. Somehow, he was too precious to be used like that. But people did it all the time. Reeve, for instance. During that whole Deepground-WRO scuffle, Reeve made Vincent the war hero before he agreed to enter the war. Vincent got sent on the most dangerous missions, and although Cid knew he was strong enough (or would "stable" be the better word?) to handle those missions, couldn't they have given him a break in between? Guy got worn down by the end of it, for sure, whether he admitted to it or not, it showed in his eyes. Why else disappear for a whole goddamn week afterward? He needed a break. Away from Reeve. Away from the WRO. Away from his friends in AVALANCHE.

Avalanche, the collapse and fall of mass material. AVALANCHE, the Troupe of Blundering Idiots that was falling apart. Cid knew it was no coincidence. It was destiny.

Did Vincent know it, too? It had never been brought up between them, but he had a feeling Vincent knew long before Cid did. Long before any of them did. Because if anyone knew some things just couldn't last forever, that _nothing_ could last forever, it was Vincent. Vincent, who had to let go of so much already and continued to cling to what he still had time to cling to.

Gah. The lack of toxins in his system was making him think funny. Man, he needed a smoke. But where to get one? Reeve confiscated all the cigarettes he had, so far as he knew.

Maybe Vincent...

3

By six o' clock, Cid was going crazy with withdrawals. He chewed gum and hacked mucus like mad, but it did nothing to quell his desire for nicotine. Not even Vincent, who searched all over the airship for someplace Reeve might have hidden Cid's cigarettes, was able to do anything. He stood by the door, silent as ever, hanging his head in shame as Cid ranted about how absolutely fuckin' miserable he was without his cigs and beer.

"Just ain't right," he said. "The time a man needs 'em most is when he's sick!"

Vincent nodded in agreement, although he begged to differ. Despite that he searched the ship for Cid's cigs, he agreed with Reeve that the very last thing Cid should be doing now was smoking. Smoking and coughing went hand in hand, sure, but along with the mucus in his throat was the snot in his nose, and Vincent, like Reeve, didn't want Cid to choke, suffocate, and die because of a stupid nicotine addiction. Maybe they could get nicotine gum on the next stop.

"Vincent? You zonin' out on me?"

He shook his head no, of course not, I would never zone out on _you_, Cid. Although that wasn't quite true. He had been zoning out quite a bit as of late. Reeve said it was the pressure about the contest. Vincent supposed that might be a part of it, but he wasn't too worried about that so far as he knew. Cid's sickness had something to do with it, as well as his own...

But could he really call that a sickness? No, he guessed not. It was more like a condition. A syndrome of sorts.

Cid called his attention back again. "Hey, come over here, then. I know we're s'posed to be keepin' you healthy"—He paused to cough—"but there's no need to be so far away. I wanna talk to ya up close. Man to man."

Of course, man to man. Because men never talked man to woman, or woman to man, or mouse to cat, or conceited to insecure. They were all men here. Big, strong, capable (but not that healthy) masculine men. No sensitivity and poetic crap about it.

Vincent went to him as requested.

"How you feelin'?" Cid asked. It took Vincent by surprise. Why would it matter how _he_ felt? Cid was the one who was surrounded by tissues and cold medicine.

"Fine," he said truthfully, and after a moment, added, "Why?"

Cid shrugged. "'Cuz you look preoccupied, is all. Reeve said to look out for any signs of nervousness. We don't need you havin' a breakdown before the contest."

"No, I guess not," Vincent agreed.

"Somethin' on yer mind?"

This he had to think about. It would be lying to say he didn't; he always had _something_ on his mind, as everyone did, but also, that something had been bothering him for a few days. Problem was, he couldn't figure out what. He usually dubbed it as nothing until he figured it out, but it felt like lying saying so to Cid. Cid had this weird way of probing him with his eyes...

Wait, _probing_?! For what? And in what way?

Finally, he shook his head. No, for now, it was nothing, lying or not.

But Cid pressed. "Ya sure?"

Nod.

"Absolutely sure?"

Hesitate. Nod again.

"You're not lyin' to me, are you?"

Vincent stared at him, and he stared back. "I'm fine, Cid."

"Okay, okay, just makin' sure." Cid gave in and grabbed a tissue. "You just have this way of not sayin' anythin' when you need to. I guess ya don't get the 'need' part of it."

"I guess not."

Cid tossed the tissue in the trash when he was done with it. This time, it made it. A sign of recovery, perhaps? "There comes a time when every man needs to ask for what he wants. _Needs_ to. Can't get it otherwise. An' there comes a time when he needs to ask for what he _needs_. The hardest part is figurin' out whatcha need and speakin' up about it." He made eye contact. "You got this problem with not speakin' up. It really bugs me sometimes."

"I'm sorry," Vincent said. Why, all of a sudden, did Cid turn the conversation on _him_? Was he that bored from being bedridden? Had that much time to think about these things?

"No, you're not," Cid disagreed. "If you _were_ sorry, you'd say somethin'. I do, and I ain't dead 'cuz of it. Maybe one day I will be, but not yet. Do you need somethin', Vinnie? Be honest with me now."

"No."

"Do you _want_ somethin'?"

Hesitation. "Yes."

No hesitation. "What?"

More hesitation. "I... don't know."

Cid laughed. It sounded raspy and sort of like it hurt because of his throat, but he kept on laughing anyway. "Kinda hard to want somethin' if you don't know what it is." When Vincent said nothing, he corrected himself. "Well, no, not really. You know you want somethin'... 'cuz there's a hole somewhere. A great big gapin' hole needing filler. You know what that's like, don't ya, Vinnie?"

He did. It was how he felt most of the time. Unsatiated. Partially there. Missing something. His hand went to his chest, the wound left by Rosso the Crimson when she stole the Protomateria from him. Before he got that wound, he felt almost whole. After he got it and the Protomateria was taken away, he felt empty and unstable. Once he got it back, he felt stable again, a little more whole, but less complete than before. Since the war ended, he wandered, searching for something that would fill the gap. Lucrecia didn't do it. Neither did further information on Chaos and Omega and his origins. Somehow, all of that was secondary. It was nice to know, even helpful to a point, but he couldn't control any of it. Whatever it was he wanted, he wanted to be able to have control over it. To some degree, anyway. He was done being vulnerable and helpless. What was it Shelke said about him? "As old as he is, and still acting like a helpless child."

Time to be an adult.

To his surprise, Cid placed a hand over his. "'Course you do," he said. "You've always known it, haven't you?"

At first, Vincent wasn't sure he knew what Cid was talking about. Then it clicked, and he nodded.

"Always known it," Cid repeated. "Couldn't hurt to try an' fill it, could it?" He looked Vincent in the eyes, and Vincent stared back, saying nothing. Cid's hand curled around Vincent's. "Don't you... wanna be happy?"

A good question. He wasn't so sure if he did. If anything, he wanted to prevent it. Because every time his spirits heightened, something tragic happened to someone he loved. His father... Lucrecia... Shalua... Would Cid be next? He didn't want anything awful to happen to Cid. But this wasn't about what he didn't want. This was about what he wanted.

He wanted... some sort of happiness. Some kind of pleasure... Some kind of blessing, in which no one got hurt. In which everyone could be happy, and no one else would be taken away from him. It sometimes made him wonder if he was a jinx. Not that Cid cared. Cid seemed pretty intent on giving him a break.

Or not.

"Do you hate me, Vincent?"

It startled him, but Cid continued to hold his hand tight regardless. "No," he said. "Why would I?"

Cid shrugged. "Just wonderin'. 'Cuz I... I really like you, Vince. I dunno what I'd end up doin' if you hated me."

And that was supposed to mean what? What he'd end up doing? What was he doing _now_? Vincent found himself lost and confused. Not overwhelmed or far behind in something he was following, but just a little dazed. Cid was being so vague, like something was on _his_ mind, but he was unsure of how to say it.

Or, rather, do it, as it turned out.

Vincent's breath had been taken away, stolen straight from his lungs. And he wanted it back. For a full ten seconds, his mind went almost completely blank. He could see the ellipses of his silence in the back of his mind, what he would be quoted as saying if his thoughts were printed on paper. "..." Vincent said. He couldn't see anything but Cid's head, couldn't feel anything but something soft and gentle (and a little wet) against his own sensitive lips, which hadn't been touched by anything save for his own fingers in, what, at least a good thirty years. But even seeing and feeling that much, he didn't register what happened until those ten seconds were over and Cid turned away to cough. His whole face turned red, just about it. Vincent felt like laughing.

But he didn't.

Cid coughed a couple times more, really hacking it up. That sound made him cringe, but it also made him realize what Cid had done to him. In all his ill and possibly delirious glory, Cid Highwind got away with kissing Vincent Valentine full on. Vincent would get his germs for sure.

It was quiet in the room (except for Cid's coughing) for double the amount of time it took Cid to kiss Vincent, plus some. Once the coughing fit passed, they stared at each other, sharing that awkward, "I'm not quite sure what to do about this. Do you?" exchange. At last, Cid came up with something.

He cleared his throat the best he could. "Heh. Sorry 'bout that, Vinnie. That was a little... impulsive."

Vincent agreed. It _had_ been rather impulsive. But it had also been very... Cid. But he still didn't know what to say, if anything should be said at all. Cid seemed to want him to say something. Maybe it was the pressure that blocked his breathing. Er, his thinking. Cid had been the one who blocked his breathing, that bastard...

But, as with most things that were wished for, now that he had his breath back, he wanted it to go away again. Just for a moment. So his mind could go blank again and... and...

"Uh..." Cid, with an uncharacteristically bashful blush painted on his face, stared at the floor. "How about now? Do you hate me now?" He spoke cautiously, as though treading in a crocodile pool. Vincent mused on this for awhile. However, the silence did not last as long.

"No," he said. "I have no reason to hate you." And that was true. He was tolerant to Cid's less desirable habits; the only factor that would get in the way of this was Shera—Mrs. Cid Highwind. How would she react to the news of her husband gallivanting with another man whilst traveling? She may call it delirium due to his illness, delirium brought on by his nicotine withdrawals, and that it may very well be. When the tobacco ain't around, go for the next best thing: Vincent Valentine, ex-Turk, a fusion of testy chemicals and possibly very deadly poisons, consisting of five different stages depending on your taste, doesn't take over just the lungs, but the whole body to go with it, and, beware boys and girls, it's very addicting. May cause cancer.

Especially if you buy the unfiltered version.

Cid gazed at him once more, eyes wide and sparkling. "Really?" He sniffed. "You mean it? You... don't mind?"

Vincent shook his head; Cid looked like a child getting over a crying spell, asking if everything would be alright tomorrow. "I don't mind. Just... don't give me your germs."

Cid burst out laughing. Despite his impairments, it was a full, rich, hearty sound this time. Just like the Cid he knew. Perhaps he was getting better already.

"Right!" All consciousness of his diction vanished. "Don't wanna give you my germs, no sir! You gotta be in tip-top shape for the contest. Can't believe I forgot! Well, in that case, Vinnie, I s'pose you ougtta be goin'. Wash up, get those germs off. Reeve'll have a hissy fit if you get sick, too."

Tone lightened. Heart, too. The gunman nodded. "It shouldn't be too much longer until we reach our next stop. You'll get your cigarettes then."

"Damn right I will!" Cid reached for the tissue box and found it near empty. "I reckon I should buy 'em myself, though. Fresh air'll do me good."

But of course, the only real cigarette he needed was walking out his door.

**END/Chapter One**


	2. Pit Stop

**Author's Notes: **Good afternoon, lovelies! This is the second chapter. Not a whole lot going on in this one. Some of you might even think it's filler. But it's not. Actually, this chapter is pretty vital to the plot. If you think it leaves off sort of strangely, it's because when I first wrote this story, I had intended it to be a one-shot. Obviously, it turned out way too long for that, so after counting how many pages I had, I went back and divided them evenly, ending them where I had put breaks before. That's why the first three chapters, when read in one go, flow smoothly with each other (at least I hope they do). That's also why they're almost the same length. I'm in the midst of revising Ch. 4, so we'll probably see some differences later on. In the meantime, enjoy, have fun, and stay safe!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own FFVII. Happy now? I admit it. I'm writing this just to annoy you.

**Warnings:** OC's (minor and necessary for plot), takes place in an original town to suit needs; if said made-up town is similar to any of your OT's or even your hometown, it's purely a coincidence, I swear. I'm not stalking you. Otherwise, the only other warning is there's no romance in this chapter.

**May Cause Cancer**

_Chapter Two_

1

They stopped in a small town not an hour later. Here, the _Valentine_ was examined, cleaned up a bit, and refueled. The crew gathered some extra supplies, and Cid and Vincent stopped by the general store while Reeve kept everybody moving and reminded them they had only twenty minutes to spare before they needed to get going again. He updated everyone on the time remaining every five minutes by having Cait Sith shout through a megaphone.

The town was dusty and open. Even with the wind blowing sand about, it was a breathable place, but not one, Cid noted, visitors would want to stop in often. Locals didn't seem too friendly. They minded their business and went on with their pleasantries—Hey, how are ya, how d'ya do—but something flashed in their eyes. Something not quite malicious, but far from welcoming. It gave Cid the kind of chills you couldn't blame on sickness no matter how hard you tried.

Which made him glad he was with Vincent, good old reliable Vinnie V., who was much more intimidating to the townspeople, with his appearance and aloof manner, than the unwelcome flashes in their eyes were to him. Cid knew that Vincent couldn't be feeling half as vulnerable as he did right now; Vincent probably got these kinds of looks all the time. And if he _did_ feel as vulnerable as Cid, then he hid it impeccably well, like he hid most everything.

On their way to the general store, Cid heard people whisper from behind as they passed. Things like, "Travelers. I wonder where they're headed?" and, "Ma! Mama, lookit that guy's _hand_! Lookit his _hand_!" and even, "Sweet Shiva, that man's walking with a corpse by his side!" Oh yes. Vincent was quite the conversation-turner.

Apparently, it was a fairly low-tech town. They passed hundreds of people, and not one of them on a cell phone. Instead, people took their calls outside of home in glass booths, set up with these big old-fashioned telephones Cid hadn't seen in years. More likely than not, they weren't heavy on mako use, either. No neon signs or even a single truck. A few bikes, but nothing like Fenrir. Had they gone through a time portal or was this town one of those stubborn we-ain't-upgrading communities, believing that technology was the epitome of evil? That would certainly explain the dirty looks.

A stone in the river of time, Vincent described himself as being three years ago. That was what this town was. Unmoving, unrelenting, and virtually unchanging for years and years and years.

Maybe somebody oughtta kick that stone.

With Cait Sith warning everybody they had fifteen minutes left, fifteen minutes and we gotta get going, people, Cid and Vincent stopped in front of the store.

**GRUDER GENERAL**

_**All you need for the price you don't!**_

They exchanged glances. Well, being travelers (and unwelcome travelers at that), they didn't have much choice, did they? No, they didn't. Question was, how far did "all" extend?

They stepped inside to see for themselves. A small place, packed full of stuff and customers, its floors as dusty as the roads. It had a sandy feel to it, with the walls painted a dull yellow, and the floorboards covered in dirt and pebbles brought in by the customers' boots. On one wall, two shelves were shoved together; on the other, one more and a display table. In the corner was a barrel full of pickles. And opposite the wall with two shelves was the counter, the cashier, and two doors on either side.

Cid glanced at Vincent and grinned. "Like somethin' outta those old Westerns."

Vincent grunted. Old Westerns, yeah. Go on and remind him of his age, why don't you? Cid led him across the room toward the display table. It featured pottery, hats, and a few bags of jerky, which seemed kind of random, but this _was_ a general store, and it did go with the brown-and-yellow color scheme. The shelf attracted Cid more than the table, however; aligned directly in his view were various tobacco products and a generous selection of beer and whiskey. He spent awhile looking over these, dazed in his delight with all these choices, not getting down to business until Cait Sith's Scottish banter echoed in the distance.

"_You have TEN minutes, men! TEN MINUTES!_"

Then Cid snapped out of his trance, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a pack of beer, and _would_ have grabbed a patch of Vincent's hair and kissed him if they weren't in public. Had that urge; guy hadn't said a word since they got out of the ship. He went to the counter to make his purchase. Vincent followed him.

"Hey," Cid said to the cashier.

"Howdy," the cashier replied. While his tone was friendly, his face wasn't smiling, and his eyes regarded the strangers in speculation. "What can I do for ya?"

Cid placed the cigarettes and beer in front of him, then nodded his head toward Vincent and lowered his voice. "Got any wine?"

"Ayuh," the cashier answered, not bothering to lower his own voice. "In the back. Costs quite a bit, though. We don't get much imported, 'specially in this season."

"What are we talkin'?"

"'Bout eight hundred gil." The cashier shrugged. "Depends on the brand. And with this added—" He gestured toward the products Cid dropped on the counter.

"Lead me to it," Cid said. "We'll find somethin' nice." He turned to Vincent. "Wait here awhile."

The cashier placed a sign in front of the register: _Be Back Soon_, and led Cid to the door on the left. Once it closed behind them and Cid disappeared, Vincent got to wandering. He wasn't too concerned about the time, although Cait Sith's reminders made him anticipate the three-two-one minute marks. The _Valentine_ couldn't leave without her Captain, sick Captain with a substitute or not.

He browsed the other wall, finding a selection of snacks, books, and medicines. Everything a traveler on the go would need for a long journey: Potions, phoenix downs, cough medicines, aspirins, ethers. He found a jar of honey, a big one-pound jar of honey, and took it down to feel the weight. It was heavy, alright. Heavy and dark gold. For the serious honey fan. Looking at it reminded him of Cid. Cid, who used up most of their honey in six hours, with his bad throat. Honey was good for that kind of stuff. Dried up the bacteria and killed germs. He used to use it all the time, back when the old Westerns weren't so old. His father would always—

"'Scuse me," someone said behind him. A woman; he could tell she wanted to get something from the shelf, so he put the honey back and got out of her way, to the shelf beside it.

His father would always tell him about the good things people received from the planet. As technology progressed, people began relying more on synthetic recipes for health over the older unrefined ones. Vincent discovered there was a balance between which to use and when. The honey and decongestant pills seemed to be working fine for Cid. Even though he was still sniffly and shouldn't be touching beer, his attitude had changed overall, meaning he must feel a little better. For one day's treatment, at least.

Vincent stared at the products on the shelf, but didn't really register what was there. He was spacing out again, thinking about Cid, and why he would—

The door opened and Cid and the cashier came out, chatting about something or other and being loud about it. Cid was usually loud. Vincent joined him once more at the counter just in time to watch the cigs, beer, and two bottles of wine (Two? Why the hell did Cid get _two_ bottles when he wasn't much of a wine-drinker to begin with?) get packed away, and the total price came down to...

"2,530 gil," the cashier said. Cid forced back a grimace and fished in his pockets. He handed over the money, took up his bag of poisons, and faced Vincent.

"Alrighty. Let's get—"

"_FIVE minutes, boys!_" Cait Sith called. "_Five minutes and we have to get moving! Finish what you're doing and be quick getting back! FIVE minutes!_"

"Shit," Cid mumbled. "C'mon, we better run. It took us long enough to find this damn place."

Vincent nodded. "Would you like me to carry that?"

"Huh?" Cid glanced at the bag. "Oh. Sure." He gave up the bag and pushed his way out the door, in spite of his muttering, "They can't leave without their Captain, dammit..." Vincent trotted loyally behind him.

Their progress came to a halt halfway to the ship. Three men blocked the path, each dressed in worn blue jeans, dusty black boots, and wide-brimmed hats. Oh yeah. The sheriff and his posse had arrived. This was getting more and more like those old Westerns by the minute.

Cid struggled to control his temper. "Pardon us, fellas, we gotta get movin'."

The fellas didn't seem to care. "Yeah?" said the one in the middle. "Where to?" His lower face was covered in stubble, his skin unmarked by wrinkles, but instead by a scar under his eye A young veteran, in other words.

Cid coughed before answering. "To our ship. We gotta get going—"

"_THREE minutes!_" Cait Sith shouted. His voice was much clearer now, but that didn't ease Cid's mind at all. It meant they were close, but not close enough. Time would run out and he and Vincent would suffer a K.O. and the game would be over, thanks for playing, please restart and try again (that'll be fifty cents). "_THREE minutes left!_"

The guy in the middle, Mr. Scar, nodded as though he understood this very well. "I see," he said. "You're in a hurry. Well, then, don't worry. This shouldn't take long. Just tell me why you stopped here in the first place."

Cid was puzzled, but the sooner he could get these guys out of the way, the better. "We're travelers, going on a long journey. Needed to refuel and shop a bit. It's called a pit stop, son."

"In _Gruder_?" Mr. Scar asked, and glanced at his comrades. "A pit stop _here_? Are you guys nuts?" He laughed, but his companions remained grim.

Cid glanced at Vincent, then returned his eyes to the three men and shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

All three of them busted their guts. "Why not," the guy on the left repeated. "Why not! _Look_ at this place, man! You think you're welcome here? You think your ship's welcome here? Look at your friend! You think _he's_ welcome here?"

"Now wait a minute," Cid said, although he doubted they had a minute to spare. "I don't think it _matters_ whether we're welcome or not. We're _leavin'_. I swear we'll be gone soon enough. You won't hafta worry 'bout a thing." He made to leave, but the man continued to block his path. He opened his mouth to shout at them.

"_TWO minutes left! TWO minutes!_" His voice was drowned out by Cait Sith's. "_Everybody to the _Valentine_ in two minutes! Cid, where are you? We can't leave until you get here! TWO minutes, everyone!_"

Anxiety replaced his anger. "Look, guys, we really gotta go."

Mr. Scar exchanged glances with the men at his sides. He sighed. "There's no need to hurry. The Devil's left his mark all over you."

"Yeah, alright, that's great." Cid waved the men away. "Now _move_, dammit! I got a ship to fly!"

The men finally moved aside. The solemn guy at the middle man's right placed a hand on Cid's shoulder before letting him go. "Bless you, man. I have a feeling that ship won't fly too long."

Cid was about to ask him what the hell was he talkin' about, the _Valentine_'s in fine condition, but Vincent pushed him forward before he got the chance. They resumed their run.

2

"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..." Cait Sith counted heads while Reeve counted figures. Cid and Vincent arrived thirty-six seconds after the three, two, one, zero mark. Cid panted heavily; he hadn't run such a distance so fast for a long time, and his sickness only made it worse. He hacked up more mucus and spat on the ground. "Eighteen, nineteen," Cait dubbed the new arrivals, and walked off to find the other crew members.

Reeve looked away from his papers to give them a hearty welcome. "There you are! We were getting worried. How are you feeling, Cid?"

Cid sniffed, still huffing. "Like shit. I think I'm gonna take another nap once we get movin'."

Reeve nodded. "Good idea. Wilson's enjoying the flight. How did you make out at the store?"

Vincent raised the bag to show him. Cid lowered his arm immediately. "Fine," he said. "Got some gum and sodas. Uh... how's she runnin'?"

"The ship? Better than ever. Why?"

Cid shrugged. "Just wanted to make sure my baby's alright an' runnin' smooth. I get nervous when I ain't the one flyin' her."

"Understandable." Reeve glanced at his papers again. "Well, if you're all set, I believe we may be able to get going now. There's only three more hours to Kalm."

"Right," said Cid. "So, uh, we'll be goin' now. C'mon, Vince." He took Vincent by the arm and dragged him on board the airship. Reeve watched them go. Cait Sith came around the corner and saluted.

"Twenty-three! All accounted for!"

"I have a feeling that wasn't gum and soda they had in that bag." Reeve sighed. "I suppose either Cid's feeling better... Or a lot worse."

3

Reeve had been right; the _Valentine_ operated smoothly. The crew worked efficiently and eagerly, as though they all agreed it was the perfect day to be here conducting a flight. The good cheer only made Cid more nervous. That guy in the road felt this ship wouldn't fly too long. What did that mean? He checked on the engine room and everything was fine. So far as he knew, everything else was working just as well. Someone would have told him (and surely no one would be as happy) if something was wrong.

Right?

He retreated to his cabin and dragged Vincent along with him. "Toss me a smoke, would ya?" He plopped down on the bed. Vincent rummaged for the cigarettes, found them, and made one clean cut on the packaging with his claw. He fished out a cigarette, handed it to Cid, and left the bag by the door. God damn him if Cid got a hold of the beer while the cold medicine was still in effect.

Cid lit up. "You know what gets me? How those guys went and stopped us in the road like that. You'd think if they hated us _that_ much, they'd let us get to our ship and leave. Or shoot us. But they did neither. I wonder why."

"They were the good guys," Vincent said.

Cid considered this for awhile, smoke drifting from his mouth like dragon's breath. "Yeah? Good guys? Think they were tryin' to warn us?"

"It makes more sense than stopping us for no reason."

"That it does. But why bother? They had the same look in their eyes as everybody else." Vincent said nothing, only stared at the floor. Cid coughed. "Hey, get me an ashtray, would ya? I forgot how fast these things burn up."

Vincent went to the door. Cid called him back. "And, uh, don't go askin' Reeve where you can find one. There should be one by the wheel. If not, do a little scavenger hunt. I just don't want Reeve findin' out I snuck cigarettes in here."

Vincent nodded, then he was off. Cid took a long drag and exhaled the smoke slowly, fighting back a cough. "Great guy. It's a shame we take advantage of 'im like this though. Ah well. Can't rape the willin'."

4

Gregory Wilson had been on Cid Highwind's crew for three years. He hoped one day to become a pilot himself. For now he was getting used to the mechanics of an airship and the structure of a reliable crew. And he didn't mind it. Loved it, to a point. Loved that sense of belonging and teamwork. He was all over that kind of stuff. But an opportunity to be in charge of the whole operation, to _fly_ the ship instead of minding the engines... He hated himself for thinking so, but he wanted the Captain to stay sick a little longer. Maybe a few days. Although, that would make him upset... He'd end up missing the contest. Everybody on board was looking forward to that contest, because they all knew Vincent Valentine—a good deal of them admired him to a fault—and they all wanted to see him win. Like Cid, they knew Vincent could win, but they wanted to see it for themselves in person. Be able to go home and say, "Hey, honey, guess what I saw at the Golden Saucer this weekend? I saw Vincent Valentine kick everybody's collective ass in the annual shootout! Yessir, he _did_!"

Ah, yeah, they were expecting a good show. Greg Wilson found it particularly amusing to imagine last year's winner standing up against Vinnie V., positively _infuriated_ over his loss... He also liked to imagine Vinnie V. in the battlefield against Deepground. Man, some of the moves he pulled off were amazing. He didn't need the WRO (which Greg had joined as soon as the war broke out) at all, not really. They were there to speed things up a little, catch the dudes Vinnie V. missed. Even so, they did more slowing down than anything, like that troop who dared ask to join Vincent for a while on their way to the central complex. And Vincent knew it the whole time. Why else make them stay behind once they got to their commander? He had no time to babysit and didn't want to risk killing everybody. So he put himself on the line instead.

Talk about a great guy. It was no wonder the Captain named the new ship after him.

Greg sighed dreamily, staring out into the clouds and lightly gripping the wheel. He tended to daydream, often while doing things like this, and so the surrounding crew members kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't pull a Cid and nearly crash the ship because he got distracted by Vincent. ...Who was pretty damn distracting, running around like he was, as though he had turned into a kitten or something.

Greg bolted upright, waking from his daydreams, and tightened his grip on the wheel. He blinked a couple of times to assure himself he was awake before speaking up. "Uh, Mr. Valentine? Sir?" But Vinnie V. did not look at him. "Er... Are you looking for something?" _That_ caught the gunman's attention.

He glanced around before joining Greg at the wheel. "An ashtray," he said. "Have you seen any?"

"Sure," Greg replied, a tad surprised. "The Captain keeps one in almost every room."

"I can't find one."

"Oh, well, Reeve might have taken 'em, in fear that they would tempt the Captain to smoke. He says it's the perfect opportunity to get him to quit, being sick and all. Did ya know he has chronic bronchitis? It's from all the smoking he does."

"Great," Vincent said, although he didn't think any of what Greg said was great at all. "Where do you think Reeve put the ashtrays?"

Greg pondered on this. "Well, I guess he could'a thrown 'em out. Or packed 'em in the storage area. Do you need one? I didn't know you were a smoker, Mr. Valentine! Maybe you oughtta try quittin' along with the Captain. It's a real bad habit."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...Did I say something wrong?"

'Where's the key to the storage area?"

"Mr. Valentine, you really _should_ think of quitting..."

"The key, Wilson."

Greg sighed. "Alright, alright. Charlie's got it. He's on the upper decks, should be somewhere by the door."

"Thank you." Vincent stepped down, heading for the door.

Greg just couldn't let go. "You know you'll die of lung cancer one of these days! You'll get emphysema—that's _holes_ in your lungs and esophagus! And then you won't be able to breathe and you'll get lung cancer and die, and the Captain, he'll be so upset! ...That is, if he doesn't get it first... It's a bad habit, Mr. Valentine! If anyone can fight it, you can!"

And that was all he got in before the door closed.

5

Charles Kent didn't really have a particular job on the _Valentine_. He did whatever was asked of him. Because he was a rookie, and on a ship, the rookies were the swabbies and did all the hard dirty jobs nobody else wanted to do.

Charlie was sweeping the hallway when Vincent Valentine emerged from the control room. He jumped; not because he was startled, but because that guy gave him the creeps. Sure, everybody loved Vinnie V. and all the services he performed, but who could deny his creepiness? Reserved and anti-social, dressed in a modernized old-fashioned way, with shoes that could literally rip you a new one if you were unfortunate enough to piss off the wearer. Charlie didn't even want to go into the subjects of the gun and the claws, or this Chaos thing everyone kept going on about. _Looking_ at Vincent Valentine was enough; the guy in red demanded respect, and Charlie would give it.

He clung to his broom with one hand and saluted with the other. "Sir!" He expected Vincent to pass by and ignore him, like usual, _hoping_ that would be the case, but no, joy of joys, today was his day to have a conversation with the great Vincent Valentine! And he didn't even brush his hair this morning!

Vincent stopped and stared at him without saying anything, as though deciding whether or not Charlie was the one he was supposed to see. Of course, who could blame him for having trouble identifying the crew members? They all looked the same! Charlie still had the hardest time telling Rhonda and Charlene apart. Imagine Vincent Valentine's trouble differentiating him from every other male WRO member.

Finally, Vincent said, "Charlie...?"

And Charlie, taken completely off-guard from being addressed by one of Gaia's greatest heroes, dropped his broom and saluted again. "Sir! Mr. Valentine! What can I do for you?"

"I need to get into the storage room," Vincent explained, seeming not to notice Charlie's temporary disorientation. "Wilson told me you had the key."

"S-so I do," said Charlie. It had been his responsibility to keep track of everything that entered and exited the storage room this past week. He still wasn't too good with the lists, but he hadn't lost his keys once. "Just follow me, sir. I'll open the door for you." He took a sharp turn backwards and tripped over the broom. He got up slowly. Geez, could he embarrass himself any more? Oh, wait, that might jinx him.

On his feet again, he grinned sheepishly and motioned for Vincent to follow. It didn't occur to him to ask what he was looking for. And when he unlocked the door and allowed Vincent to rummage through the boxes and crates, he stood outside shaking and cursing himself for being such a dork. He became so enthralled in his self-abusing, he hardly noticed Vincent exiting the storage room. He did, however, managed to catch sight of the red cape walking away, and immediately locked the door.

"Good day, Mr. Valentine! I hope you found what you wanted!" Not that Charlie cared enough to check or write it down.

Vincent heard this perfectly. "So do I," he said to himself. "I hope I found what I wanted, too."

**END/Chapter Two**


	3. Lucrecia

**Author's Notes:** Wh-why don't you ever talk to me anymore?! We've grown so far apart... you act so distant... you smell like... like... something nice! Are you seeing someone else?! Why? What have I done wrong? WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE? That's it! I'm not taking this! I'm gonna go back home and live with my mother!

...what's that? I never moved out of my mother's house in the first place? Oh... well, that makes sense, I guess. I'm still in high school after all. And I don't have a job. Or, y'know, that sacred stuff associated with green that you put in banks and use for trade. Sorry for the accusations. Maybe we can make up?

**Disclaimer:** As stated before, I have no money, dude. That means I make nothing off this (except much joy, laughter, and heartache, right? RIGHT?). Otherwise I _would_ be out of my mother's house. ...after finishing school.

**Warnings:** This chapter is somewhat somber. I apologize. I made up a monster. Does that count as an OC? Also, there is some naughty language, drug references (I don't endorse teenage alcoholism! It was just something to talk about!), and um... Actually, I think that's it. Pretty tame. It gets hotter later on, though. Oh yeah, baby.

**May Cause Cancer**

_Chapter Three_

1

"I'm happy," Cid said, leaning over to tap his cigarette against the ashtray. The ashes fell from the tip in a gray chunk and broke apart upon landing in the glass. Vincent didn't looked convinced. "No, really, I am! I'm the happiest man in the world right now! I'm rested, I'm relaxed, I got my cigs and a stuffy nose, but who the hell cares 'bout physical ailments when life is so damn _good_?"

"The blind men," Vincent answered dreamily. "They can't see how good it is."

"They can't see worth _shit_," Cid agreed. "And there's a surprisin' amount'a blind people in the world. But who cares about them? Who _cares_, Vinnie? I sure as hell don't! They can go fuck themselves so long's I got my cigs."

"You can't be happy without them?"

"Huh? Oh, sure I can. It's just a lot harder 'cuz my body's used to havin' 'em. That's what an addiction is, Vinnie. A physical and emotional attachment. They tell ya that in every damn school you go to."

"Not in my day," Vincent said. "They were more concerned with mako uses. ...And misuses."

"Yeah?" Cid dragged and was careful to blow the smoke away from Vincent. "Well, ev'ry generation has its thing. 'Don't do drugs' was a _huge_ part'a my growin' up."

"Yet you do them anyway."

"Yup," Cid smiled. "Just a rebel like that."

Vincent smiled back, unable to help it. The improvement in Cid's mood was so great it was contagious. "What else were you rebellious about when you were young?" he asked. He sat by the wall opposite Cid, who lay on his side on the bed. Just a casual sleepover between two close friends.

"Eh, lotta things," Cid replied. "Normal teenage rebellion stuff. Y'know, like schoolwork an' curfew... and datin'. I was always tryin' to get outta school, 'cuz in those days, I always had a hangover. Claimed the teachers drove me to drink, they was too uptight and I was too easygoin' of a guy. We butt heads all the time in those days, me, my parents, and my teachers. My parents had to go to a lotta conferences 'bout my behavior."

"You went to school drunk?"

"Only sometimes. And never intentionally. It just happened that way, 'cuz... I was a mean alcoholic even back then. Everythin' made me feel like drinkin'. And if I was cravin' beer, I was cravin' nicotine, although that really didn't get that bad 'til my last years in high school." He leaned his head back on the pillow and sighed. Usually nostalgia made him feel sick, but right now he felt better than ever, despite the bad memories. Maybe it was because Vincent was listening to him.

Or maybe it was because he couldn't get any sicker than he already was.

He coughed and changed the subject. "How 'bout you, Vinnie? What were your teenage years like?"

Vincent thought about this, digging for the answer in his mind. The mind that apparently had too many memory capsules in it to remember anything. At least, the things he _wanted_ to remember. There was Lucrecia and Hojo, and the Turks, and the last few years of life with his father, but this was all post-twenty stuff. What was his life like before he hit twenty years old? He couldn't remember. What a drag. He couldn't recall what were supposed to be the "best years of his life."

Guess they weren't too great.

Oh, wait...

"I remember... Walking home from school," Vincent said, doing his best to maintain and clarify the image that came to him. The path he took from school to his home. The long way.

"In the snow and sleet and rain?" Cid joked.

"In the snow, yes." Vincent pretended not to notice. If he got distracted by Cid's mannerisms, he might lose the memory. "I remember walking home from school in the snow. In the ninth grade. I was fifteen years old. And... passing through the neighborhood, I saw a doll—a little girl's baby doll—left in the snow by the trash. It was missing an eye and a leg. But... it was still smiling. And I remember thinking, 'That's how it is with me, too.'" He fell silent, wondering why of all the memories in his head, that one came up. Surely he had plenty of moments when he pondered on how tragic life was, how terrible things turned out for him—and how awful he was to think that way, when plenty of other people suffered on a daily basis, when so many unspoken others had it a lot worse.

Cid seemed to be doing the same thing. At last, he said, "Well, y'know, Vinnie, it doesn't have to be that way forever. You can change things if ya put your mind to it."

Change things? As though enough hadn't changed already?

No, no, of course not. Things never stopped changing. But to change things to his preference... He was no god, and neither was Cid. What could they possibly do different to make things go his way?

So far as he was concerned, nothing. Go with the flow and don't you dare intervene; keep that goddamn rock away from any goddamn river. No dams here, brother. Only curses.

Curses about how cold the water is.

"But Cid," Vincent said, having said much more than he usually did already; a few more words wouldn't hurt. Too badly. "I don't know what it is I want to change."

Cid shrugged. "Think about it for awhile. It'll come to you eventually. In the meantime, get me some beer."

Vincent gave him a warning look.

Cid grinned. "Root beer, that is."

Vincent stood up. "That I can do."

2

Three hours later and they were in Kalm. This they considered to be a checkpoint. While much of the town was still under construction after the Deepground affair, there remained many survivors thanks to Vincent's efforts, survivors that worked hard to restore Kalm to what it had once been. It was the perfect place to stay. They were welcome, and close to their destination in Corel.

And this time, nobody got in their way.

As the night came on, debates about whether or not to sleep in the reconstructed inn or on the ship started up. Cid said those for renting rooms at the inn were ridiculous; it would be much cheaper to sleep in the ship, and there was plenty of room for everybody. Those in favor of the inn argued they were sick of being stuck inside the _Valentine_ and felt bound by her walls—in other words, they wanted a change of scenery and some hookers. In the end, the crew split up for the night. Out of twenty-three, fifteen went for the inn, and eight stayed on the ship. Cid, Vincent, and Reeve were three of those eight. Unless you counted Cait Sith; then seven and a half stayed and fourteen and a half went. Reeve felt it would be best if Cait stayed at the inn in case anything happened.

Not that they planned on anything happening. The guys at the inn would undoubtedly throw a party, and maybe the guys on the ship would, too. It depended on how early Cid wanted to go to bed. He had been napping on and off all day, and so he may not feel like going to bed until two o' clock in the morning, but he was also still as sick as a dog and developing something in his lungs as well as his head and throat.

Reeve blamed the cigarettes.

Cid asked him how the hell he knew about that.

Reeve said he got word from the substitute captain that Vincent went around looking for ashtrays earlier, and he was pretty sure Vincent wasn't a smoker, so he assumed it had been asked of him by Cid. Was he right?

Cid, caught between a lie and a cough, reluctantly admitted that yes, that was right, he sent Vincent out for an ashtray so he could smoke proper without messing up the place. Said he was stupid for not using tissues for his ashes instead.

Reeve said the ashtray was a sensible choice in that situation because Cid needed the tissues for other things and they were running low as it was, but he still shouldn't have bought the cigarettes. Why couldn't he buy the nicotine gum instead?

Didn't have the same flavor, wasn't the same experience, Cid explained. Gum's nice for chewing and all, but it's no good for smoking, nicotine fix or not.

Reeve said alright, but try not to smoke _too_ much for the sake of his lungs. His cough sounded worse than ever.

Okay, Cid agreed. Did Reeve want to join him and Vincent for a round or two of poker?

Sure, why not, Reeve replied.

And that was how the three of them ended up being locked in Cid's cabin when the party started.

3

The three men sat in a circle on the floor, Vincent between Cid and Reeve, Reeve between Cid and Vincent, and Cid between Vincent, a blue tissue box (one-third of which the contents remained), and Reeve. Each man held cards in his hand. A pile of chips sat in the midst of the three-man circle. Cid didn't have a very convincing poker face; his face was flushed and he kept biting his lower lip, eyes darting from the chips on the floor to the cards in his hand. There were three stacks of poker chips at his feet.

Reeve wasn't in much better condition. While he managed to keep a neutral expression, his brow had begun to perspire a little. If it wasn't for the bright lighting in the room, it probably wouldn't have been noticeable, but as it was, Reeve struggled as much as Cid. He had two stacks of chips at his feet.

It was Vincent who made them so nervous and cautious in their decision-making. Vincent, whose expression remained the same as always (when he wasn't angered or grieving, anyway), and who seemed to be in perfect control of himself. Calm and waiting. Watching. Looking over his cards at the other two with a faint air of amusement. There was not one chip near the tips of his pointy shoes; he had gone all-in, and the current pot was made up primarily with his bet.

To a lot of people, this might look like the point in the game to give up. Vincent won, let's just dig out our wallets and give him everything. But Cid and Reeve knew better than that. Mysterious and enigmatic as he still may be, they knew the devious Vincent Valentine better than anyone, and those cards in his hand could easily be the worst combination you could get. He was trying to scare them, that was it. Trying to intimidate them into folding by making it look like he had the best hand in the world.

Or maybe... That was too obvious. Maybe he _did_ have a really good hand going there...

Cid couldn't take it anymore. He kept going back and forth with his options, second-, third-, fourth-guessing himself. Enough was enough. It was time to try Vincent at his own game. He pushed his three stacks of chips forward. "All-in," he said, and nothing more. He sat back and waited for Reeve to make his decision.

Reeve lost his poker face the moment Cid pushed his chips forward. His mouth fell open as though wanting to say, "Are you _mad_, man?" But of course, no sound came out. Vincent's air of amusement increased, thus increasing the tension, and Reeve nearly panicked. He placed his cards down. "I fold."

Cid turned to Vincent. "It's you and me, Vinnie. Ready?"

"Ready," Vincent said. Reeve leaned forward to watch.

And then an earthquake caused the _Valentine_ to rock and rattle violently. The cards and chips blended together; both Cid and Vincent dropped theirs. All three of them slid into one corner of the room, Cid squishing Vincent against Reeve, Vincent squishing Reeve against the wall. It was not a comfortable position, this Vincent sandwich. Especially when the furniture began shaking so much, it started breaking free of that which held it plastered to the floor.

Luckily, the quaking of the ship stopped before the sandwich could become a pancake. Everything sat still and creaking for a few moments, and then Cid tried standing up. It worked. Reeve and Vincent stood up after him. They stared at each other.

Finally, Cid asked, "What the hell was _that_?"

Reeve answered, "Maybe we ought to check the engine room..."

"Maybe we oughtta check _outside_," Cid suggested. "It was like the fuckin' ground cracked open!"

"Nothing that bad," Vincent said. "But we should examine the ship for damage."

"_Damage_?" Cid spoke it like it was the worst thing in the world. "My baby better _not_ be damaged!"

"We can't help it if it is, Cid," Reeve said. "We can only repair what we can. And then—"

"Aw, fuck it!" Cid interrupted, and ran for the door. But the doorknob refused to turn. "Fuck it!" he said again. "Door won't open! What now?"

Vincent and Reeve looked at each other as though expecting the other to know the solution. Vincent decided he did. He stepped forward. "Break it down," he said, and pulled his gun from its holster. "Try again. If it still won't open, we'll break it down or blow it up, depending on which comes first." Cid stared questionably at Reeve, as though asking if this plan was okay. Reeve nodded his approval; after all, if the ship was about to blow up due to gas leakage because of a break in the tank from the quake, they couldn't very well be locked in here and live. Best to follow Vincent's instructions and tap into instinctive survival mode.

Cid tried the knob again. When he found there was still a great deal of resistance, he turned to Vincent and shook his head. Vincent cocked his gun to the side, motioning for Cid to move. Cid moved. Vincent fired. The doorknob fell off with a slow, whiny squeak, like that of a rocking chair, as the door opened.

"Blew the lock to pieces," Cid said. "Good job, Vince."

"Any time," Vincent replied, and led the way into the corridor. Cid and Reeve followed, their poker game scattered and forgotten.

The ship was silent, save for their breathing. Lights flickered. One unit had fallen from the ceiling and lay sizzling on the floor. The men were careful stepping over it. It all gave Cid a really bad feeling to go along with his bad head, bad throat, and bad lungs. His nose started dripping and he realized he didn't have any tissues with him. Damn.

They checked the engine room first. The surface damage didn't look _too_ bad. Nothing was in flames, as with the _Shera_. Lights flashed and the machines seemed to be unable to decide which way to work, if at all. Steam coated the ceiling, bunched up enough to make it look like smoke. But it wasn't. Couldn't be. Didn't have the smell. The source of the steam worried Cid more than the chance that it could be smoke, however.

"Shit!" He pointed from one pipe to another, scanning his eyes across the room in a daze. "Leviathan in a string bikini!" He sniffed loudly. "What the fuck got in here?"

The controls, the computers, the gears—most were either unhinged, torn apart, or donned with three parallel slash marks, long and acute enough only to belong to some kind of beast. Reeve began walking around, trying to get a better look. Cid stopped him almost as soon as he started. "Live wires," he warned. "Don't want to get too close to those."

Reeve stepped back. "No. I suppose not." He paused, once more looking around the room. "Where do you think it could be now?"

"I dunno," Cid said. "But we're gonna have to check all 'round the ship. And be careful. Keep aware. Vince is already equipped, so he'll be our bodyguard 'til we can grab stuff from the weaponry room. We may end up having to kill it, whatever it is. I just hope there's just one and it's small."

"You have a better chance of beating Vincent at poker," said Reeve. "Judging by what we experienced a few minutes ago—assuming that the shaking is related to the scratch marks we see here—whatever did this is big. Possibly as high as the ceiling and as wide as the corridor."

"And 'bout the length of the three of us stacked on top o' one another," Cid added, and shuddered, imagining it. "Makes me wish Cloud was here."

"Don't worry; we have Vincent."

"Right. My good ol' buddy Vin—" But as Cid turned to face his good old buddy Vin, he found that good old buddy Vin was a good old buddy gone. Like the wind. Frankly, Scarlet, I _do_ give a damn.

Cid panicked. He ran for the doorway and stuck his head outside. "Vincent? Vincent, where the hell are you, man? You should say somethin' before running off!" But Vincent didn't answer. Cid motioned for Reeve and they began down the corridor together. Where did that goddamn gunman go?

They heard a crash from behind and spun around at once. There he was, good old buddy Vin, holding some kind of purple lizard in his claw. Cid and Reeve breathed a simultaneous sight of relief.

"There ya are, Vinnie!" Cid went to him. "Scared the shit outta me there. Whatcha... whazzat?"

Vincent held the purple lizard higher into the light, staring at it as though contemplating the same thing. "Looks like it may be the culprit."

"Yeah?" Cid took hold of its hind legs to check out its claws. They were long, sharp, and dangerous-looking, but they weren't big enough to fit the marks on the engine room equipment. The front legs didn't fair much better. He had to ask. "How do ya figure that?"

"Watch," Vincent said. He placed the lizard on the floor between them. Here, Reeve got a better look at the lizard's arrow-shaped head and pupil-less yellow eyes. Its scales were smooth enough to blend into each other to look like skin instead of scales; in fact, the only reason he knew they _were_ scales was because Vincent brushed them the wrong way when he put the lizard down, revealing the delicate layers. And indeed, they were delicate. Vincent had to be gentle or else he might break some of them. Which he didn't want to do, although it might have appeared that way.

As the lizard was discovering that it had been caught and surrounded, there's no escape, put your hands up high and praise Bahamut you're alive, Vincent crouched low beside it. Slowly, he tucked the tip of his "index claw" underneath a couple of scales. The lizard remained oblivious until its molester applied pressure. Then it snapped its head around and hissed so shrilly it sounded like a human scream, and lashed its long, red tongue several times at the intruding claw. Transparent green slime oozed from that tongue and coated Vincent's gold-covered fingers. The combination of colors might have been pretty if it wasn't slime on gold, and if that slime wasn't so sticky, or didn't thicken the longer it remained in the open air. As the slime thickened, its color became darker and opaque, and Vincent's claws were as good as glued together. At the same time, the lizard, seeing that its molester had been "captured" or at least slowed, began to grow.

It started with the head. The head expanded outwards, then upwards, and filled in while the front legs filled and stretched. The hind legs did the same, followed by the tail, and finally the torso inflated like a balloon. By the end of the transformation, the purple lizard was five times its original size, about a foot shorter than Vincent, about five inches thinner than the width of the corridor, and around fifteen feet long. Cid and Reeve had to run down to the other end of the hallway as the lizard grew. Metamorphosis complete, the lizard had trouble turning around in the tight area, but its claws could undoubtedly fill the impressions left all over the engine room.

"How the _hell_—" Cid began, and stopped, as the giant lizard opened its mouth, dropped its tongue, and...

Snapped its head backward once more. Vincent poked it again, distracting it from Cid and Reeve. It struggled to reach him and attack, but soon found it couldn't; it was too big in an area this compact. Gradually, it relaxed and began to deflate; mustard yellow substance oozed from its purple scales onto the floor in a thick puddle around its legs. The scale-skin folded in on itself as the body inside it shrunk. Finally, the old scale-skin shed, and the lizard emerged from underneath in its original shape and size, with a shiny new layer of scales drying off from the mustard yellow ooze, which ran down the hall and gently bathed the men's shoes. It stank something awful, something like toxin and rotting fish. Reeve and Cid were careful to avoid as much of it as possible on their way back to Vincent. Once they regrouped, Cid stared at Vincent and shook his head.

"Man, that was amazing! How'd you know it could do that?"

Vincent picked the lizard up and held it like you would a cat. "It's a Pactim lizard," he said. "Also known as the Purple Dragon. I used to have one as a pet."

"A _pet_?" Cid gaped at him. "The hell'd you want one as a pet for?"

Vincent glanced from the Pactim lizard to Cid as though trying to make a decision between the two. "My father found it when he went out scouting one day—some project Shinra gave him. It was an endangered species then, so when he found it, he reported it and took it back to the laboratories. They wanted to keep it for observation and start a conservation program, but... One of the scientists went too far with his observations and performed a full-blown experiment on it. It was then deemed useless and unnatural, and would have been killed, but my father decided to detoxicate it and give it to me instead. ...It didn't live long."

Silence. Then Cid asked, "Why?"

And Vincent answered, "Most live experiments don't live long. The organism is unable to adapt to the differences in its internal structure and—"

"No," Cid interrupted. "I mean, why'd he give the damn thing to you instead of killin' it?"

"He didn't want to kill it." Really. Vincent thought this was obvious.

"No kiddin'." Cid thought that was pretty obvious, too. "Why'd he give it to you, though?"

"Oh. I can't tell you that."

"How come?"

"Because I don't know."

"Oh. Well then. What do you s'pose this whatever-you-called-it's doin' on my ship?"

To Reeve's surprise, Vincent didn't even need to consider this. "Gruder. The Pactim lizard is extinct—or supposed to be—in today's world. Gruder is the only place I can believe one to exist. Besides, what they said to us before we left..." Vincent trailed off, and Cid nodded. Reeve looked lost.

"Mind filling me in on this?"

"Certainly," Vincent said. He was on a roll today.

4

When Vincent finished explaining what happened in Gruder, Reeve took the lizard from him and examined its body structure more closely. "It's obvious they snuck this on board the ship with the intention to sabotage our flight," he said, turning the lizard over to get a look at its belly. 'What I want to know is why. Basing their reasoning on their dislike of technology is exaggeration; I doubt, if they hated technology _that_ much, that they would let us stay in the town for so long—at least not without directly damaging our ship or something of the sort. They must have some other motive we didn't stick around long enough to find out." The lizard struggled and flipped itself into a different position, nearly escaping from Reeve's grip. He caught it and held it tight before it could completely loosen itself, however. In response to this, the lizard began hissing and flicking its tongue quickly in warning.

"Don't hold it so tight," Vincent cautioned. "It'll inflate when enough pressure is applied. Or when you get it angry enough."

Reeve gave him the lizard. "You better hold it then." He shook flecks of slime off his hands; the stuff appeared to ooze out of every pore on the lizard's body, not just its tongue. Vincent didn't seem bothered by it in the least. And why should he be? The Pactim lizard brought on a great deal of nostalgia. Reeve only hoped it was the good kind. "What do you propose we do with it?"

"My first instinct would be to kill it," Cid said, regarding the lizard warily. "But... Since it's a s'posedly extinct species..."

"And a female," Vincent stated, sounding somewhat surprised as he held the lizard similar to the fashion Reeve had, belly up.

"A'ight. Extinct species and a female. Maybe we should keep it."

"And keep it for what?" Reeve asked. "Do you think we may be able to tame it?"

"I dunno," Cid said. "But Vince seems to like it, so why not?"

Reeve watched the Pactim lizard wriggle out of Vincent's hands only to be caught once more and having to wriggle out again. It was a game. The lizard wasn't oozing goo from its scales or its tongue. It batted at Vincent's claws with its own, seemingly without the intention to harm. Had this lizard already been tamed? By someone in Gruder, maybe? Or was it just attracted to gold?

"Well, Vincent," Reeve said after awhile. "What are you going to name it?"

Vincent looked up. "Name it? ...Her?"

"Yes," Reeve replied. "We're keeping it—her—so we may as well give her a name."

"Just think o' one you like," Cid suggested. "A pretty one. She's a damn pretty thing once ya get used to her."

Vincent returned his attention to the lizard, pondering names. Pretty names. He stared and thought in silence for a long time before turning his head to the side and laughing at himself. This was unusual for Vincent, as low-key as it was, and made the others worry about his mental health.

"What?" asked Cid.

"Nothing," Vincent said. "I just can't get the notion of calling her 'Lucrecia' out of my head."

**END/Chapter Three**


End file.
